


The Neophyte

by Kolya_Dreger (Glass_Jacket)



Category: Vassalord
Genre: Blood Drinking, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but it's not insulting or blasphemous, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12779436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Kolya_Dreger
Summary: Chris goes on pilgrimage. Post manga / OVA





	The Neophyte

**Author's Note:**

> My first venture into this fandom, hopefully not my last.

The link read “Self-Guided, Independent Flexi-Tour”, and boasted a length of seven to fourteen days, dealer’s choice, and a chance to experience the wonders of the Camino de Santiago. It claimed to be the holiest of all pilgrimages for those of the Catholic faith, and while Charles J ‘Chris’ Chrishunds wasn’t about to doubt those words, he had long since strayed from that devout path and had found himself exploring something strange and new and yet from the bone at the same time. Pilgrimages, he knew, were not just for organized religions. There were many types of spiritual journeys for those who believed in many different things, and sought out a better understanding of themselves, and their chosen roads. 

Behind him where he sat in front of his laptop, the bed springs shifted and the sheets whispered over the smooth skin of his chosen path. Johnny Rayflo, vampire progenitor, suspected playboy, and all around incorrigible pain-in-the-ass, stirred where he slept, and then flopped on his back, to fling a long arm out to the empty space beside him.

Then, he whined.

“ _Cherry_.”

Chris sat straighter at the mention of his pet name. “Mmm?”

“Come to bed, will you? The light from your screen is making it impossible to sleep. And I can hear you thinking all the way over here.”

Chris made another sound in his throat, momentarily wondering if perhaps he were to make such a trip - his own journey of his new belief - if that might bring him closer to understanding why him, and why this life.

“Chris,” Rayflo snapped.

And Chris had to smile a bit at the way he automatically reached to close the laptop at Rayflo’s tone. “Coming, Master.”

“Promise?” Rayflo asked as Chris settled on the edge of the bed and removed his glasses. A second later and Rayflo was wrapped around his back, long legs slinging over his own, arms slipping under his to cross over his chest and play with the fine hairs there.

“Don’t tempt me,” Chris whispered, settling a hand over one of Rayflo’s. “You’re still weak after...well…” he trailed off with a blush.

Rayflo giggled against Chris’ shoulder and then flicked his forked tongue up the shell of his ear. “Mmm, I am, but what a show, Cherry.” He leaned back then, and pulled Chris with him.

He heeded Chris’ advice, however, and merely arranged them under the covers so that he was snugged up against Chris’ side, leg and arm thrown over him possessively. Chris’s hand worked its way into Rayflo’s dark curls and held him there against his chest.

After a few moments, Rayflo’s breathing evened out, and Chris dared to speak softly. “What do you suppose the meaning for all of this is?”

Of course, Rayflo didn’t answer; Chris didn’t expect him to. The answer, he knew, lay within his own heart and his own learning. After all, it was not the destination, but the journey that made all the difference.

+

He begins his journey at dawn. 

The way is not long, but it can be difficult, testing his beliefs and his resolve with the firm undulations of beauty, the long, smooth plains of contemplation, and the soft, enveloping darkness of hearts and words and eyes. In all the years of his service to the church he’d never made such a journey, and he’s uncertain as to why he chooses to do so now. It is only when he remembers the reason for undertaking such a path - that it is to show his devotion, his worthiness, his service to something greater than himself - that he is uplifted, and his actions are smooth, and with purpose.

Preparations commence with cleansing, doused under long rivulets of steaming water, scrubbing away those last vestiges of a part-time calling, and a half-hearted willingness. The reason for his journey, then, is twofold: it is more than blood and sacrifice, it is a way of life. He understands this the only way he can be at peace with himself. That which he seeks out is his salvation, and his undoing, light and dark at work in his soul, and in the world he knows.

If he contemplates these things far too long he runs the risk of becoming overwhelmed with too many questions and losing sight of his goal. He lives for his Lord and Master, the pinnacle of his faith in himself and his actions, and the peace that comes when he devotes his time and energy to a mission such as the one he is on the brink of. Once more he wonders why here, and why now, and looks to the hallway that leads to his temple. Behind closed door and drawn curtain lies the curious bones and relics of his faith, a faith which he knows he will follow blindly, without question, for all eternity.

It is too early for supplication, though the desire to do so is a terrifying ache. He knows that he would not be chastised for being eager; still he holds some of the restraint imbued upon him in his past calling, and it serves him now. He will prepare, and he will wait with anticipation coursing his veins. There are other things he must do first.

Offerings are to be made if he is to find that which he seeks, and the tribute he is to bear is made up of everyday things that he knows will appease. Of course he also knows that he could appear naked and empty-handed, and it would be enough. His Lord and Master would greet him, take him into his arms and bestow upon him such unearthly pleasures that the very thought of them in that moment makes Chris pause and catch his breath. 

Clove cigarettes will only sweeten the deal and tell his Master he has spent the day thinking of him, anticipating him, longing for his word and a chance to kneel. Like styrax in a censer, the spiced clouds that would curl about his Master would signal Chris’ ascension to the divine seat of long limbs and trembling pillars of paradise. Knowing this, he opts for two of the black papered packets, and wooden matches, lest he offend the blend of clove and tobacco with the harshness of butane from a lighter.

He takes his time wandering through a local market next, an outdoor affair that is sure to put colour in his cheeks and the smell of sunshine in his skin and hair - both subtle offerings, he supposes, for his Master will be grateful for a glimpse of his long lost sun when he rises in the evening. Chris’ reason for the market visit, however, are perhaps somewhat cliche, and might be considered blasphemous if he were still torn between two Lords. How can wine, used in the sacrament, be associated with blood, and with vampires? The irony is certainly not lost on him, nor upon his Master. His Master will drink of the wine, and Chris will drink of his body, and while the flesh is stronger than steel, it is soft as fresh bread, and binding even when broken with brethren.

The thought sends a tingle through his jawbones, and sets those razored teeth on edge.

He would do well to finish his errands and return to his chambers until the evening, lest he become fevered with the notion and overtaken, unable to wait, and wait upon his Master. Pushing the intrusive thoughts aside, Chris proceeds to a wine merchant, known for rare vintages, and chooses two bottles, one of which is young, and bright, and not quite as rare, and will be spilled on the altar where he worships. The other, older, deeper, full of magic, will be consumed in the aftermath, when they have no words left, and only breath. He thanks the vendor and turns to make his way back out of the market.

The flowers and the fruit are bought on a whim. After all, he is a neophyte to his new order, the cherry on his Master’s custard, and he still blushes while he pries loose long-forgotten hymns in strange languages from the throat of his Lord. He buys a pound of Lapin cherries and thinks not on the price paid, but on the reward earned. They don’t need to eat, have little use for it, but there is a novelty in the almost-forgotten ritual, one that his Master delights in from time to time. That Chris might bring the light of surprise to his Master’s eyes with something so simple as cherries makes his breath catch in his throat.

And yes, he still blushes, and is flustered when he strips, clothes fluttering like the delicate, soft and pink petals of the cherry blossom, a bundle of which he clutches in his hand. He might see them set in a glass of water; he might see those petals crushed between his fingers and his Master’s flesh, ground to the slate tile by knees, and toes, hips, fluttering in pale moonlight, dusting over damp skin. An errant line of a Portuguese poet envelopes the image in Chris’ mind, and he cannot stop the soft gasp that leaves his lips - 

_I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees._

His footsteps quicken, his offerings held reverently as he begins the second leg of his pilgrimage.

+

Rayflo stands in the doorway, casually leaning his hip to the frame, and watches Chris where he is kneeling on the hardwood floor. The younger vampire’s movements are subtle, and Rayflo cranes his neck to see what he’s up to. He can smell something sweet, and something murky, beyond the scent of Chris’ skin and blood, and suddenly there’s a small snap as a match is struck. Then, thin wisps of smoke curl up from the table in front of Chris, and Rayflo pushes off where he’s leaning.

“ _Cherry_.”

Chris cocks his ear, casts a small backward glance over his shoulder to Rayflo, and then lowers his eyes, lashes sweeping over pinkened cheeks. “Master,” he greets. He doesn’t bother correcting the pet name anymore.

The younger man moves once more, swinging around so that he’s facing Rayflo, and he holds up the clove cigarette he’s just lit as an offering.

It causes Rayflo to pause, and he bites his lip and looks beyond Chris’ shoulder. There he sees the low table laid with wine, the black pack of Djarum, a handful of cherry blossoms, and a bowl of sweet, ripe cherries. He looks back to Chris with a curious quirk on his mouth.

“You’ve been busy, Cherry-chan,” he sings.

“Yes,” Chris softly replies.

Rayflo blinks and regards Chris for a moment. “What’s the occasion?”

There’s a tremor in Chris’ body, and for a moment his rigid posture seems to falter, but he takes a breath and steels himself against Rayflo’s naturally biting wit. “You are, Master.” He lifts the cigarette higher.

Rayflo moves fluidly, closing the distance between he and Chris, and he takes the offering between his own fingers and sets it between his lips. Once more he glances to the table, taking note of the way Chris has arranged things, and then contemplates the way the younger man kneels. It’s almost amusing, but there’s something stirring the air that stays the chuckle threatening to erupt from Rayflo’s throat.

“Come to spoil me?” Rayflo murmurs, smoke rising to circle his head.

Chris blinks at the silvery-blue tendrils swirling around Rayflo’s dark curls, and he shakes his head and looks down at his hands, now folded in his lap. “No, Master. Not to spoil but...to offer thanks. To offer my gratitude. My loyalty.” He quickly peeks up at Rayflo, who is gazing down at him. “My _service_.”

Rayflo watches Chris’ cheeks turn even pinker with those last words, and his breath catches at the timbre in the blond’s voice. He licks his lips and carries the conversation carefully.

“You serve me well, Cherry. I should be thanking you-”

“ _Master_ ,” Chris interrupts. “Don’t...don’t deter me on this quest. I make this pilgrimage of my own free will, and because I can’t ever come close to telling you-” and here Chris falters and his voice snags. He takes a breath and holds it, closing his eyes briefly. “I will never come close to...to putting into words what you have done - what you _do_ for me, Master, and that keeps me awake at night-” 

It’s Rayflo’s turn to interrupt, and he places a long, graceful finger over Chris’ lips before he can say anymore. “Shh,” he soothes. “The only thing I want keeping you awake at night is _me_.”

He lets Chris turn his hand then, knuckles dragging over lips, tongue flashing down to the webbing between his middle and index digits. Uncurling his fist, he offers his palm to Chris, who presses a hard kiss on the swell of Venus. The tip of his tongue traces the lifeline, the one that doesn’t seem to have a beginning or an end, and as Rayflo turns his hand once more, Chris locks his gaze with his, and scores the skin with the fine tip of one fang.

The sting makes Rayflo’s whole body flush as best it can on borrowed blood, and he nods. “Chris,” he murmurs, brushing back a piece of blond hair that has fallen over Chris’ eyes, careful not to burn him with his cigarette.

“I must confess, I am greedy, Master. I fed but two nights ago and yet...something inside of me is incomplete. Is empty.” Chris’ words are caught in Rayflo’s palm, and he buries his face in Rayflo’s wrist, his breath hot and damp on the delicate skin there. “I am a glutton, and lustful, and-”

“-and all the other sins, too,” Rayflo decides, unable to keep the mirth from his voice. “My beautiful, sinful, Cherry-chan. I carry just as much guilt as you do, then, and perhaps more.” Once again he touches Chris’ hair, and then pauses to pinch off the end of his cigarette. “Are you here to pay penance, or ask for my favour?” He subtly turns his hand and slips the tips of his fingers over Chris’ mouth.

“I desire...satisfaction, Master.”

Rayflo smiles indulgently and steps to the overstuffed armchair near the table. Crossing one long leg over the other, he slowly slips the buttons of his shirt free and sweeps his fingertips over the sharp angles of his collarbones before directing them toward the table. 

He smiles impishly. “What have you brought me?”

+

“I could get used to this, you know,” Rayflo muses gently as he twirls Chris’ hair around his fingers. 

Chris shifts where he’s sprawled on Rayflo’s chest and his tongue sweeps over the ghost of a bite. “Hm, what’s that? Me, devouring you?”

With a languid hum, Rayflo stretches, curls his toes in the sheets, and gives a subtle shrug. “No, not that. I don’t think I’ll ever be quite used to that. And I mean that in the best way possible. I’m talking about...about before. The smoke, and the wine, and the-”

“Cherries?” Chris murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow and raising an eyebrow at his Master.

“Oh, yes. The _cherries_ ,” Rayflo purrs, the recent memory slipping through him like electricity. He curls his forked tongue behind his teeth and shifts beneath Chris.

“Master, are you trying to tell me that you thoroughly enjoyed being…” Chris trails off and finds one of Rayflo’s nipples, swollen and red from previous activities. He says nothing more, merely sucks, and sucks hard, and gently pierces the skin surround the sensitive peak.

“ _Worshipped_ ,” Rayflo groans, finishing Chris’ sentiment. His other hand comes to join the first, slipping through Chris’ hair and tightening into two fists at the base of his skull. “Ha - ah, Chris!” He tilts his hips up and hisses again. “Do that again.”

Chris chuckles and gently pulls blood to the surface. “Master, you’re exhausted,” he points out, even as he feels Rayflo begin to stir and stiffen where he’s pressed to Chris’ belly.

Rayflo’s head of dark curls shakes restlessly. “Hardly,” he pants. “I’ve...more,” he gasps, wincing when Chris bites him again, this time just beneath the swell of one pectoral muscle. “More to give...God in Hellfire, Cherry, _what_ are you doing to me?” He lifts his head and gazes down with half-lidded eyes, and is greeted with Chris staring up at him, tongue swiping over his lips to get every drop of blood he can.

“Ensuring my favour for all eternity,” Chris chuckles, pushing up so that he’s arching over Rayflo.

Rayflo snares Chris’ hips with his thighs and holds him, watching him closely as he peels back the humour layered over the younger man’s words. “Chris,” Rayflo says gently. He reaches up and places his hand on the face hovering over his. “You know you have it-”

“Tell me, Master,” Chris prompts, stealthily diving to place a kiss on Rayflo’s neck. He feels the vibration of the replying moan and he has to smile, knowing damn well he’s had the honour of his Master’s favour for the better part of two centuries.

Still, it never hurts to be reassured, especially now when all pretenses have been dropped, and he’s no longer hiding behind the cloth. He moves lower, and slips his fangs into Rayflo’s skin, the sweet burst of blood making him almost giddy. He pulls back for a second, licks the wound, and bites again, deeper, drawing more of Rayflo into him.

“Tell me,” Chris repeats, and he’s rewarded with those long fingers raking through his hair before being pushed further down Rayflo’s torso.

His skin is taut, smooth, and a little damp and sticky from earlier activities. While the spots under Chris’ mouth warm instantly, and bloom like roses in the snow, this will be the last time he can feed before Rayflo needs to rest. With that knowledge, Chris goes where Rayflo wants him, to where the most revered station of his Master’s desire, and that of his own devotion, lay waiting.

Few words are necessary at this point. Rayflo’s need combined with Chris’ appetite is a heady concoction, and the latter drops his head to the angled hip, pressing his nose to the crease running where it meets thigh. He presses those thighs open, a hand on one and a shoulder to the other, making room so that he may give his due properly, and take it all the same. 

Below the surface of the flawless skin is the source of everything that is this divine rite, and Chris’ mouth trembles with aching teeth and flickering tongue. Rayflo presses against the back of Chris’ head and raises his lower body at the same time. In the slivered seconds that follow, Chris hears his Master’s voice, soft, but unyielding, and with purpose:

“ _Please_.”

It is a rare thing to be asked of something by the gods, Chris thinks briefly. Then, as his jaws widen and he sets his mouth over the femoral artery running the length of Rayflo’s thigh he thinks no more, and opens the gates to his new hereafter.

_**~end~** _


End file.
